All the Secrets of Alhambra (a Wild Sufi Poem)
This heart You have stolen, what is it to You?
Answer me! What is it to You?
Climbing the ridge-line, I stand gazing
Into the distance for sight of You and Your fleeing robe...
I wonder: how it is that I am yet alive
With only my remembrance of You...
My heart in a wooden box:
Clutched and carried cold across the desert...
The moment You disappeared
I grabbed only my black robe and ran from our tent...
Like Sappho or Sheba,
You shredded my dreams as so many worthless leaves...
Tortured now: I think of how You walked
Undulating, over the cushions to our wedding bed...
For a moment, a stunning moment that bridged eternity,
I was the Kaaba and You were the faithful pilgrim...
Even Moses in his dusty, tired, book upon the stand
Looked up and rose from the dead...
When You slid from beneath Your robe
I thought I understood the secret life within annihilation...
One moment, one hour, one year or one life
There is not the least bit of difference when surrendering...
The mystics know better than to argue,
But the pagans, oh, give me the wild pagans!
You slipped the Gospel like a ring
From my hand, and left me shorn like once a King...
I let loose a cry of every conniving thought
Intent upon the glorious chase and capture of You...
My feet turned blue and my soul a burnished red:
I cursed and I begged and I fell against the sand...
Why would You not relent? And why would
You frighten me with a Face now old and haggard?
Angels and demons came from the dark: wielding
Their weapons of grace, I watched as they chased You further...
Abandoned. Bereft. In the shadow of deepest night
I slept and in my dream I was the lover of Layla...
I shook myself into a boundless offering of fury:
"Take my fasting! Take my years of giving!
Take every field-offering of my sacrifice!
You stole my heart: as You stole many before: I call You thief!"
Joining a gypsy caravan, I vowed to think of You no more,
Still, I careened into remembrance at the call of lovers...
And sitting by the morning fire, drowsing in my solitude,
I blankly watched the rising gypsies scratch and wipe their loins...
I left them by a wandering stream, awakening once again
By the pure lust of pursuing You and my stolen heart...
I called out to the saints and scoundrels who dealt with You,
Successfully or not: did they have a word to save me?
I asked the same of a street-woman in the city:
She said I should not look at the gaps in her teeth...
She said: "All the secrets of Alhambra are for those who
Don't look: but who only see the Beauty behind the seen...
With straw in my mouth, I sat: intent upon "seeing
Only the Beauty behind the seen"... and what I suddenly saw!
I saw the dead rise first and become little children.
I saw little children become mothers and fathers and flowers...
I saw the manic of wealth and privilege become endless giving.
I saw the suffering, the poor and lost walking elegant and free.
I saw gardens and fruits and vines and goats and sheep
And then creatures of desert and forest ambling down the street...
I saw the people were really gracious and kind: I saw
We were all gypsies of the soul caravanning into endless delight!
And finally, finally, I saw the Divine Love of my youth and pagan dreams:
And She held to Her chest the wooden box that hid my stolen heart!
As the sun began to set, I pulled my robe tight about me, knowing
The gnarled Oak Tree with a grand and ancient familiarity...
But during the night I thinned away and vanished, leaving there
Only a tattered black robe upon the withered grass and leaves...
This holy and sacred Earth and every life upon it is meant for our sacred adoration! The "viewpoint" of the mystic is simple: every moment, and everything, and everyone -- always and everywhere -- presents to us an opportunity for humble adoration... it is either this toward which we are intending, or global suicide...
Perhaps, after all, it might just boil down to you!
Come on over to my house for some tea and a conversation...
Answer me! What is it to You?
Climbing the ridge-line, I stand gazing
Into the distance for sight of You and Your fleeing robe...
I wonder: how it is that I am yet alive
With only my remembrance of You...
My heart in a wooden box:
Clutched and carried cold across the desert...
The moment You disappeared
I grabbed only my black robe and ran from our tent...
Like Sappho or Sheba,
You shredded my dreams as so many worthless leaves...
Tortured now: I think of how You walked
Undulating, over the cushions to our wedding bed...
For a moment, a stunning moment that bridged eternity,
I was the Kaaba and You were the faithful pilgrim...
Even Moses in his dusty, tired, book upon the stand
Looked up and rose from the dead...
When You slid from beneath Your robe
I thought I understood the secret life within annihilation...
One moment, one hour, one year or one life
There is not the least bit of difference when surrendering...
The mystics know better than to argue,
But the pagans, oh, give me the wild pagans!
You slipped the Gospel like a ring
From my hand, and left me shorn like once a King...
I let loose a cry of every conniving thought
Intent upon the glorious chase and capture of You...
My feet turned blue and my soul a burnished red:
I cursed and I begged and I fell against the sand...
Why would You not relent? And why would
You frighten me with a Face now old and haggard?
Angels and demons came from the dark: wielding
Their weapons of grace, I watched as they chased You further...
Abandoned. Bereft. In the shadow of deepest night
I slept and in my dream I was the lover of Layla...
I shook myself into a boundless offering of fury:
"Take my fasting! Take my years of giving!
Take every field-offering of my sacrifice!
You stole my heart: as You stole many before: I call You thief!"
Joining a gypsy caravan, I vowed to think of You no more,
Still, I careened into remembrance at the call of lovers...
And sitting by the morning fire, drowsing in my solitude,
I blankly watched the rising gypsies scratch and wipe their loins...
I left them by a wandering stream, awakening once again
By the pure lust of pursuing You and my stolen heart...
I called out to the saints and scoundrels who dealt with You,
Successfully or not: did they have a word to save me?
I asked the same of a street-woman in the city:
She said I should not look at the gaps in her teeth...
She said: "All the secrets of Alhambra are for those who
Don't look: but who only see the Beauty behind the seen...
With straw in my mouth, I sat: intent upon "seeing
Only the Beauty behind the seen"... and what I suddenly saw!
I saw the dead rise first and become little children.
I saw little children become mothers and fathers and flowers...
I saw the manic of wealth and privilege become endless giving.
I saw the suffering, the poor and lost walking elegant and free.
I saw gardens and fruits and vines and goats and sheep
And then creatures of desert and forest ambling down the street...
I saw the people were really gracious and kind: I saw
We were all gypsies of the soul caravanning into endless delight!
And finally, finally, I saw the Divine Love of my youth and pagan dreams:
And She held to Her chest the wooden box that hid my stolen heart!
As the sun began to set, I pulled my robe tight about me, knowing
The gnarled Oak Tree with a grand and ancient familiarity...
But during the night I thinned away and vanished, leaving there
Only a tattered black robe upon the withered grass and leaves...
This holy and sacred Earth and every life upon it is meant for our sacred adoration! The "viewpoint" of the mystic is simple: every moment, and everything, and everyone -- always and everywhere -- presents to us an opportunity for humble adoration... it is either this toward which we are intending, or global suicide...
Perhaps, after all, it might just boil down to you!
Come on over to my house for some tea and a conversation...